Chapter Seven

Hawk

“Damn it all to hell!”

The cry thunders from my lungs like a shout of battle, and I slam my fist down on the table hard enough to send pain shooting up my arm and my drink skittering a few inches.

A blank screen formatted like a table shouts at me with white space screaming to be filled. There’s a row where names, dates, and genders should appear.

But there’s nothing there – it’s all empty.

It’s useless. I’ve been trying to hack into the Alabama state medical records for days, and nothing until now. And now that I finally got it...it’s a whole heap of worthless crap.

This has to be a mistake. I can’t believe it. I pulled records for five years, including my birth year, and they were all populated...except for the year I need.

The year that will give me my mother’s identity.

Frustration jolts through me, and I want to throw my laptop across the room until it smashes into a million little pieces. Deep down, I know that wouldn’t do anything to soothe my frustration, only put me out a few thousand bucks. But the throbbing anger compels me to act out, like rash actions are my only choice in this fucked up situation.

With a huge sigh, I reach for my phone.

“Siri, call the American Medical Association of Alabama.”

My phone dials a number with a strange area code, and I swallow a bundle of nerves before holding the phone to my ear. It’s weird to think that my mother could have had this area code – these three little numbers could have been a part of her daily life for years.

“This is Jeanne, how may I help you?”

“Uh, hi, I’ve got a question about medical records.” Butterflies flutter in my stomach. It’s strange – as comfortable as I am typing, I’ve never felt comfortable talking on the phone.

“Well, this is the right place,” Jeanne chirps in a thick drawl.

“I need to order a copy of my birth certificate for, uh, a passport,” I lie. “I was born in Alabama in 1988.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do,” Jeanne says. “Do you mind holding?”

Before I can reply, a click snaps through the line, and bad Muzak fills my ears. I take a deep breath as I try to calm the ferocious pounding of my heart. I couldn’t do it with hacking – but maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance I can still access my own information.

“Hello, sir?”

“I’m here.”

“What year did you say you were born?”

“1988,” I repeat. “Why?”

“Do you happen to know which county? Or better yet, which hospital?”

“I was adopted,” I say. “And I don’t know anything – other than that I was born in Alabama and I’ll be thirty next year.”

“Well.” The pause says more than the word. Something I’m not going to like is about to come. “I’m afraid there was a really bad fire, happened just at the end of eighty-eight.”

“What?”

“This was before we had any kind of electronic records,” the woman continues. “Sir, I’m real sorry. I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You’re saying...the records are gone? You don’t have any backups or anything?”

The woman gives a nervous little laugh. And in the notes of that tinkling sound, the possibility of finding my birth mother heads straight down the drain along with hairballs and grimy water. Like a metaphor for my life. “No, I’m afraid not. I know it’s a real darn shame – you know, my niece was born that year too.”

Fuck your niece, I think as a feeling of defeat washes over me. Now, what the hell am I supposed to do? I have no idea where to go from here. All I know is that until I find my mother, I’m not going to be able to move on with any work-life balance. I resist the urge to lose my temper on the empathetic woman. I’d spent the better part of my adult life proving that I wasn’t a worthless piece of shit. Not stupid. Not dispensable.

“That’s too bad. Is there anywhere else I can call?”

“Well, you could call social services, but I don’t know that they’d have anything like what you’re looking for,” the woman says. “But you know, if you needed to talk to someone, they have free counselors on the line, twenty-four seven.”

With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and drop my face in my hand. I can’t help but feel the pain, the dull ache in my heart that’s as unsettling as the noose of lonely around my neck.

“Sir? Sir, are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I grumble. “I’m still here. You sure there’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m real sorry,” the woman repeats. “The fire was such a tragedy.”

“Thanks,” I mutter before hanging up and slamming my iPhone down on the table, letting all of my frustration fall on the great slab of oak, the useless phone call ringing in my ears. That’s ten minutes of my life I’m not getting back.

I should’ve known. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up that there was some way, some small part of the universe that would allow me to find my birth mother after all. Of course, there was a fire.

The universe hates me.

I turn in my computer chair and face my large monitor. The empty table on screen mocks me, and I close the page with a face of disgust.

Now that I don’t have many concrete options left, there’s only one thing I can do. Ever since I came to Vegas with the idea that my mother could be here, I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to find her. After searching through online groups for Alabamian transplants, I got the idea to start hunting around social media.

People – especially women – of the generation old enough to be my mother liked talking online about where they’re from. I’d seen it many times, ever since one of my old hacker friends would start tweeting about Maine every time he got drunk. One of his late-night bootie calls gone wrong actually gave me the idea, although I hadn’t realized it until much later.

Frowning, I log into one of my many Facebook accounts. None of them are real, of course – there’s no way I trust that site and their issue with information leakage – but I’ve hacked into the front-end of the site’s userface and made it possible to use as a directory. I set my location to Vegas, then search posts within the past twenty-four hours for mentions of Alabama.

I lean closer as the search results pop up on the screen. There’s only one – posted by a Darlene Menson. Her profile picture shows a middle-aged cartoon woman holding a big glass of wine and wearing polka-dot sunglasses.

“Can’t believe I’m missin’ the Sugar Bowl! Roll Tide!”

I smirk and click on her profile. It can’t be this easy after everything I’ve been through, can it?

Bingo.

***

An hour later, I stand in front of a flimsy door with my knees threatening to buckle. Dust blows around in the sky, landing on the little trailer on the outskirts of Vegas. Desert stretches for miles behind it, desolate and dry. It must be the reason my eyes sting like nettle – at least, that’s what I tell myself as I raise my fist to knock on the door, ignoring the tremble in my fingers.

“I’m comin’!” Heavy footsteps and a drawling voice sound from inside. “Hold your horses!”

The door swings open, revealing a pudgy woman of late middle age with greasy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes are quick, dark, and intense – just like mine – and a spark of hope ignites in my chest as she looks me over from head to toe.

“Can I help you?” She steps closer and narrows her eyes. “And please, don’t try sellin’ any of that energy efficient shit. I fell for that scam last year. Couldn’t buy my favorite pork rinds for months.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I promise. “I just want to talk to you. You’re Darlene, right?”

The woman looks wary as she nods. Realizing that I must be scowling, I force my lips into a smile. It feels unnatural, especially now that I’m so nervous, but it does the trick – the woman relaxes a bit.

“Okay, mister.” She glances over her shoulder. “But you can’t stay for long. Them OC housewives come on in an hour.”

Darlene leads me inside the trailer. On the inside, it’s much neater and cleaner.

“Do you live alone?”

Darlene frowns again. “What, are you one of those census people? I don’t pay no mind to the government. Ain’t never done nothin’ for me.”

“No.”

“You want somethin’ to drink? I got Coke.” Darlene motions to her kitchenette. “Or water.”

Even though my mouth feels like an hourglass broke and the sand poured inside, I shake my head. “No, thank you. Is there someplace we can sit down and talk?”

Darlene looks skeptical, but she leads me into the living room and settles into a giant armchair before turning off the television. The only place left to sit is a small loveseat, and I lower myself down, awkwardly crossing my long legs so they don’t bump against the coffee table.

“When did you move here from Alabama?” I ask.

“Hmm,” Darlene says as she cocks her head to the side. “You know, I think it was almost five years ago. I came out because my nephew – he’s a lot of trouble, that one – got kicked out of his school dorms, he needed somewhere to live.”

“And you stayed?” Emotion rises in my chest like a flag of hope – I feel like Darlene skitters practically on the edge of mentioning her lost child.

Darlene doesn’t answer. She takes a pack of cigarettes from the table and packs it against the hard, wooden surface before unwrapping the cellophane.

“You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Do whatever.”

Darlene lights up and takes a deep drag. It’s all I can do not to sigh my impatience as I watch her puff in silence.

“So,” I say after a long pause. “You liked Vegas enough to stay, huh?”

“Oh, sure.” Darlene waves a hand in the air, and a cloud of smoke hovers over my face. “It’s nice here, you know? I like seein’ all the people who come out on vacation. It’s real nice, they’re all so hopeful. Don’t mind tryin’ my hand at them penny slots from time to time.”

Hopeful. It’s the word for how I’ve been feeling since I saw Darlene’s post on social media, and I can’t seem to shake it, even now. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm and I tap my toes on the trailer floor like I’ve just downed three cups of espresso.

“Do you have any family out here?”

Darlene squints. “What, you mean besides my nephew?”

The nerves take over, wrapping around my neck and choking me. “No. Like a son, maybe.”

Darlene purses her lips, then shakes her head. I search her eyes for any sign of deception and see nothing but honesty reflected back at me. “No. I never got ‘round to havin’ kids. I always wanted ‘em, they’re just real cute. But this ain’t no Disney movie, kid. Prince Charmin’ can’t find his horse when it comes to poor white trash like me.”

“You...you never gave a child up for adoption?”

Darlene narrows her eyes at me. “No. I’d never do that. Don’t believe in abandoning babies, no matter what. I was raised up different ‘an all that.”

The iridescent soap bubble of hope pops in my chest, and for a second it hurts to breathe. My stomach clenches as the hot sweat on my palms turn ice cold.

“Aw, sugar plum, I’m sorry.” Darlene clucks her tongue and reaches over to pat me on the arm. For a second, I shut my eyes and let the support wash over me. “Were you lookin’ for someone?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly as I stand up and wipe my palms on my thighs. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. Have a good day, Darlene. It was truly a pleasure meeting you.”

Darlene says something in reply, but it’s lost to me as I push out of her trailer and into the hot Vegas sun. My head spins like a whirling tornado by the time I get back in my car and slam the door. It hurts so much – much more than it should.

I feel like such a pussy, but I can’t help it. The immensity of the pain overwhelms me, and tears bubble up. As a thirty-year-old man I know I should be over feeling this way.

I don’t let myself cry. I have too many things to do, too many projects to work on. All I need to do is forget about Darlene and today’s massive disappointment. Continue to live within the margins of life, neither here nor there, welcome or unwelcome.

As I drive away from Darlene’s trailer with clouds of dust in my wake, I make a vow to myself. It kills me, but I have to stop searching for my birth mother. This new lance of pain affected me today in a way I can’t even articulate, and I can’t take any more agony.

Gripping the steering wheel, I swerve onto the highway and begin the long journey back home.